


Stormy Skies and the Color Green

by bluephoenix1347



Series: Freya and Cullen [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen, Lyrium Addiction, Minor Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age), Minor Lavellan/Solas, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Burn, okay medium burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-10 02:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12902283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluephoenix1347/pseuds/bluephoenix1347
Summary: It has been ten years since Freya Lavellan, formerly Freya Trevelyan, was sent to live with her father after her magic manifested when she was nineteen. A bastard in Ostwick and a shem in Clan Lavellan, she feels like she’s not had a real home in that time. When she goes to the Conclave as a spy for her clan, she is thrown into a whirlwind of trouble, and wakes with a glowing green mark on her hand.((Personal story arc-centered retelling of Dragon Age: Inquisition and beyond, told from the persepectives of Cullen and Freya. Rating will go up in later chapters.))





	1. Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen notices too much, and wants to notice more.

The battle raged around him, a steady din of demons and death. Cullen whirled, facing yet another shade. Sighing, he fought, the methodical precision of his strikes lost against the savagery of the demon. 

When he’d killed it, he heard one of his soldiers cry out, and he whirled to see them get stabbed in the thigh with a demon’s talons. He lunged back and dispatched the shade with a quick strike of his sword.

“Are you all right?” Cullen asked the soldier. The demons seemed to have stopped coming for now. 

“Yes, ser,” he said, though his face was pale, blood gushing from his leg. It must have hit a major artery.

“What’s your name?” Cullen asked.

“Jim, ser,” the soldier managed.

“Well, Jim, we’ll soon get you back to Haven and have Apothecary Adan look at that leg.”

The young man nodded, blinking back tears. He looked like he was about to say something else, but then  _ she _ appeared.

She was radiant in green, and he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. He could only watch as she charged her blade with electricity and swung the greatsword through a wraith. It dissipated, flowing back into the Fade with a sound of a thousand whispers.

Despite not knowing who she was, they fell in step almost immediately, back to back, shoulder to shoulder. Then she cast a barrier around them both, and Cullen flinched as magic touched his skin. The shade they fought broke through his guard and drove a long scratch across his chest plate. He grit his teeth, furious at his reaction, furious at his falter. He channeled that rage into a shield bash, pushing the shade back. She thrust her sword forward, lightning surging out of the tip.

Cullen faltered again. Was she a warrior or a mage? He’d never seen anyone fight like that, with both magic and a greatsword, seamlessly intertwined.

Before he could process what was happening, she was casting her hand upwards, and green light was pouring out of it,  _ into _ the rift.

Then it closed.

Only then did he realize who else was there, and breathed a sigh of relief. Cassandra, and Varric, and that elven mage, Solas.

“Lady Cassandra,” Cullen said. “You managed to close the rift.” He was still staring at the woman with the greatsword, though she wasn’t looking his way. “Well done,” he added, though he wasn’t sure if he was talking to Cassandra or the unknown woman by her side.

Cassandra sighed. “Do not congratulate me, Commander. This is the prisoner’s doing.”

_ The prisoner.  _ So  _ that  _ was who this was. The sole survivor of the explosion at the Conclave, the explosion that had killed the Divine, and so many others. The woman who, it was said, could close the hole in the sky.

“Is it?” he asked. “I hope they’re right about you. We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here.”

He was still staring at her. Even covered in red grime, she was beautiful. She was shorter than Cassandra, with wide hips and broad shoulders, her light brown hair close-cropped, only slightly longer than his own. Her small brown eyes were smudged with dark makeup, her ears tapered to a gentle point, and although she bore none of the facial tattoos indicative of this, Cullen had heard she was Dalish. 

“I apologize for that,” the woman said. Her accent was as beautiful as the rest of her, and odd, lilting Marcher tones mixed with a slight Ferelden brogue. “The Seeker sent someone to aid the scouts in the pass. I hope we find them alive. I wish there were more I could have done.”

“Thank you, Lady. . . .” He realized he didn’t know her name.

Their eyes locked. Hers were amused, though he reckoned he looked like a stunned mabari.

“Freya,” she said. “Freya Lavellan. Not a lady.”

“Well, Mistress—”

“Just Freya.” She glanced around, suddenly looking slightly nervous, a contrast to the fierceness of her combat skills. “That goes for everyone.”

“Freya,” Cullen said, tasting her name on his tongue. “I’m—Cullen. My name is Cullen.”

She smiled. “You’re very welcome, Cullen.”

He found he liked the way his name sounded in her voice. He cleared his throat once and tore his gaze to Cassandra. “The way to the temple should be clear. Sister Leliana will try to meet you there.”

“Then we’d best move quickly,” Cassandra said. “Give us time, Commander.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Cullen saw Jim nearly collapsing. He began to turn toward the soldier, eyes still on Cassandra, saying, “Maker watch over you, for all our sakes.”

With one last glance at Freya Lavellan, Cullen threw Jim’s arm around his shoulders and supported him to their army’s makeshift camp, where hopefully he wouldn’t have to lose his leg, or his life. They’d lost far too many people already.

Selfishly, he hoped Freya wouldn’t be one of them.


	2. Freya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya can't sleep for the nightmares that plague her. Cullen is in much the same situation.

She dreamt of a woman, and the color green. Voices, screams, whispers. Flashes of light, verdant in her periphery. She could feel the death around her, the darkness and the damp, bound around her like blankets, stifling her soul.

No. Those were real.

The world righted itself when she opened her eyes to the ceiling of her cabin in Haven, feeling the bed beneath her, the covers tossed around her. Moonlight flooded into the room as the memories flooded into her mind—the Divine, the Conclave, the Breach, the mark on her hand. That last was flaring green, sending pain shooting up her arm. She scrambled to her knees as if to get away, knocking the pitcher on her nightstand to the floor with a flail of an errant limb.

Freya cursed softly, biting her lip and leaping to sop up the water with her bedclothes. Great. Now those were wet, too.

She sighed, letting her head fall. There was no way she was getting back to sleep after this.

Shoving her feet into her boots by the door, not bothering to lace them, Freya pulled a cloak around herself and made for the fire at the center of Haven. Someone was already there, staring into the dying embers, hands clasped behind his back.

It took her a few moments to recognize him without his armor; Commander Cullen was barefoot, dressed in trousers and a loose shirt that hung lopsided, the neck skewed almost artfully over one shoulder. Walking up to stand a respectful distance away, she took a moment to study him. He was much thinner without the bulk of his cuirass, almost gaunt in some ways, though the muscle he had was strong and toned from sparring. His hair, oddly enough, was a mess of blond curls, and Freya had the sudden urge to reach up and ruffle them. She doubted he would have taken that kindly from anyone, let alone a mage he barely knew.

After a few moments, she finally broke their comfortable silence. “Couldn’t sleep, either?”

She could practically hear his heartbeat quicken. “Maker’s breath! You—you startled me.” He blinked, eyes locking with hers as they opened, realized who she was. “Forgive me, I didn’t hear you come over.”

Freya smiled. “It’s fine, Commander.” A pause, in which she took in his state of dress. “Aren’t you cold?” she asked.

He gave a small shrug. “I don’t mind it. I grew up in the south, in Ferelden. I’m . . . used to it, I suppose.”

“Well, I am not.” She pulled the cloak tighter around herself. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

Cullen shook his head slightly, turning his gaze to the fire once again. “Just . . . a bad dream.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Oh.” His response had been immediate, almost before she had finished her question. “Sorry, I’m just so . . . every time I wake up I expect to be back with Clan Lavellan, or even with my mother in Ostwick. Somwhere. Just not here.” She sighed. “I hope everyone’s okay. I wonder if everyone even knows I’m still alive.” She chuckled. “Hansen’s probably halfway here by now, if he’s not. . . .” She trailed off at his confused expression. “My half-brother. Mother’s heir.”

“I thought you were Dalish,” Cullen said.

Freya made a face. “Sort of. My father is. My mother is human. Lady Valerie Trevelyan of Ostwick.”

“So you’re nobility?” Cullen asked.

A laugh. “Hardly. I’m illegitimate. I’m Valerie’s first child, and she loves me, so when my magic manifested she sent me to live with my father. I saw him often, knew the clan, so I was fine with it. The only thing that really changed was where I slept.” She sighed. “Maker, I’m glad I wasn’t in a Circle.”

Cullen looked at her. “You make it sound like a prison sentence.”

She didn’t look back. “From what I’ve heard, it is one.”

A sigh. “Sometimes it felt that way for me.”

Freya eyed him. “You’re not a mage; why were you in a Circle?”

“I am—I  _ was _ —a templar.”

“Ah.” A pause. “Was?”

“I left the Order when I joined the Inquisition,” Cullen said.

She nodded. “I see.”

“I . . . hate to ask this, but what’s your position on the war? The mages, the templars, the Circles, everything.”

“Curious about the views of the dreaded Herald of Andraste?” Freya bit her sleep-loosened tongue. This wasn’t a dream; she had to be more careful.

“Concerned about the political leanings of a potential ally,” Cullen responded. He shook his head. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry. If you—”

“No, Commander, it’s fine.” She cleared her throat. “I am . . . unique in my views. It’s not a perfect system, in fact I think it’s quite damaging to everyone. Circles are a horrible solution for combating demonic possession, and taking children away from their families is abhorrent. I was lucky, I had a way out. The Chantry couldn’t touch me with the Dalish. But everyone else. . . .”

Freya followed Cullen’s gaze into the dying fire pit and snapped her fingers a few times, failing to create either a click or a flame. Finally, she resorted to using her preferred class of magic, and shot lightning at the embers until they burst to life in a cloud of purple sparks and a soft rumble of thunder.

“I’ve never been very good with fire,” Freya offered as an explanation, more to fill the silence than anything else. “I used to shock my brother, Hansen, all the time. By accident, of course.” A soft sigh. “Creators, I hope he’s still alive.” She laughed. “Sorry, you probably don’t care about my problems. You have enough of those in the Breach, as well as whatever you have going on.”

His guard shot back up. “What do you mean?”

“Bad dreams?”

He didn’t say anything.

“It’s all right,” Freya said, “I get them too.”

They stood in silence for a few minutes, just enjoying the other’s company. It was a rare person who could sit in silence like this without feeling the need to break it.

Then Freya yawned.

“Are there any blankets around here? I think I’d prefer sleeping outside to that musty cabin they gave me.”

“I usually sleep outside, as well. I hid a bedroll around here, somewhere,” Cullen said, and crouched behind a crate to produce a rolled up mat and a few quilts. “I’ve only got the one, though.”

Freya shrugged. “I just need a blanket and something to use as a pillow.”

He faltered. “Are you sure? I can find another—“

“Cullen, I’m half Dalish. I’m used to sleeping with tree roots under my back.” A pause. “Thank you, though. I appreciate the thought.”

Freya watched him set up his bedroll, setting his blankets aside for her. She didn’t ask why he didn’t want one. Figured it had something to do with his need to sleep in the open. She sometimes felt uncomfortable in closed spaces, too. But tonight, she’d take that discomfort over freezing to death. She plopped herself down next to him, not bothering to clear out the snow, and tucked herself into the blanket, folding the other into a makeshift pillow. The fire crackled by their heads, and looking up at the clear night sky, she thought maybe she could get used to this.

“Good night, Cullen,” she said.

He sighed. “Good night, Freya.”

On impulse, she leaned over and placed a soft kiss on his cheek, a habit from when she and her clanmates would sleep side by side in much the same configuration. By the time she’d realized what she’d done, he was already fast asleep. Freya smiled, turning over so as to not disturb him.

As she drifted off, she felt safe, despite everything, despite the unknown magic on her right hand, wrapped in the blanket so she couldn’t see its green glow. She’d figure it out. She would adapt. She always did. And she wasn’t alone. She’d found a friend in Cullen Rutherford, whether she liked it or not.


	3. Freya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya and Cullen spar.

The next morning, Cullen was gone, presumably returned to his tent to get ready for the day. Stretching, Freya bundled up her blanket, took one last look at the slight indentation where he had lain next to her the night before, and smiled. An ex-templar and a mage, yet maybe they weren’t so different after all.

What meager belongings she had were still in her cabin, so she went there to wash up. She dressed in her armor and stuffed her things into a pack. She paused over the blankets Cullen had given her then shoved those in, too. Oddly, they’d smelled faintly of oak and some kind of flower. She left the staff Harritt had found for her at the door, hoping to ask the blacksmith for something else. Maybe a greatsword? A pair of daggers? Something like that. 

Shouldering the satchel, Freya took one last look at her dismal little cabin, now devoid of any sign she had ever been there. The bedclothes had even been changed, probably by an elven servant. She bit the inside of her cheek so hard it drew blood. There were so many things wrong with that, she didn’t know where to start. 

As if in response, the mark on her hand flared quietly, sending a tingling sensation up her arm. It wasn’t quite pain this time; it felt almost like her own lightning when she cast it. But there was something else beneath that, older and stranger, like an old, forgotten memory best left untouched.

Then it stopped, and the feeling faded, forgotten.

Shaking her head, Freya closed the door to the cabin without a look back.

Haven was bustling with activity. People milling about on their daily business, greeting her as she walked past. She found herself wandering down to where the soldiers trained, and stopped short, cheeks turning pink.

Cullen was shirtless, already glistening with a light sheen of sweat, greatsword in hand, directing his soldiers in early-morning drills. Freya walked up to them and smiled, more confident than she felt.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked.

Cullen smiled back at her, a genuine smile, and Freya’s heart leapt in her chest. In daylight, he was undoubtedly very attractive. She could almost hear Hansen’s laughter; he would have been impressed that she had figured that out.

“Of course,” Cullen said. “I was just showing these new recruits how to properly hold a greatsword. You’re quite good with them, why don’t you give it a go?”

Freya couldn’t help but blush at his compliment, however innocent.  _ Stop thinking these things,  _ she berated herself.  _ Maker, it’s like you’re twelve, suddenly. _

She shook herself out and widened her smile. “Why not?” she said, walking up to the first recruit, at whom she immediately tutted. “That’s your first mistake,” she said to him. “Don’t put your sword point in the dirt like that, it’s not good for it—and please, don’t lean on it!” Hands on hips, she looked him in the eye. “How long have you been fighting?”

“I haven’t ever, m’lady Herald,” he said. “Just thought I should join, learn how. Most of us’ve never touched a sword ’til now.”

Her gaze softened. “Well, I appreciate your enthusiasm.” Eyeing Cullen she found his expression unreadable. “I think this calls for a demonstration,” she called to him.

“Hmm? Yes. Who would like to volunteer?” He seemed to be addressing the recruits, but Freya had other plans.

“I was thinking  _ we _ could spar, Commander.” She smirked. “Got any daggers?”

His smile just kept getting wider and wider. It was a good look for him. “Right this way.”

Cullen led Freya to a table of weapons, where she chose two shortswords of different lengths, and Cullen traded his greatsword for a hand-and-a-half and a shield. They returned to the recruits, who gathered in a wide circle around them. She readied her daggers, and he slid the shield onto his arm.

Then he advanced.

Freya sidestepped, but he countered until they were circling each other, both unwilling to make another move. In that time, she was sizing him up. He was obviously experienced, maybe a little older than her thirty years. There was an ugly burn on his left shoulder, old, shiny scar tissue on his chest, disappearing behind his shield. A smaller scar bisected his upper lip, and Freya’s guard dropped slightly as she wondered how he got it. She didn’t get a chance to ask; he’d seen her falter.

Good thing Freya had excellent reflexes, or it would have been over right then and there. She blocked, sliding out of the way and laying a light tap on his shield.

He scoffed. “You can do better than that,  _ Herald.” _

Freya laughed. “Can I, Commander?”

“I imagine so.” A grin. “Let’s try again.”

And he lunged.

It took everything Freya had to keep up with him—even with a cumbersome shield, he was fast, his transition between defensive forms was seamless. He was a skilled warrior, that much was for certain, and if she were being honest with herself he was better than her in a fight without magic.

Right. Magic.

She summoned energy from the Fade, eyes closing for a moment. Pale blue light glowed around her sword, solidifying into a rope of gleaming energy; with a flick of her wrist it was lashed around his sword. Of course, he was good, and tugged back, lurching her forward so she had to catch herself awkwardly on her left foot, narrowly dodging his shield.

Freya whirled, swords raised, and pushed outward with all her will. He raised his shield just in time to deflect the blast of magic. What he hadn’t expected was that the flashy display had just been a distraction. Whipping more Fade energy around the longer of her two swords, Freya swept it forward and his feet out from under him. His reflexes kicked in, and he grabbed her arm, pulling her forward once again. She landed on top of him, his shield arm splayed and her swords skidding in the dust.

“Well,” Freya said after a moment. “That was fun.”

She rolled off of him and helped him to his feet. He looked a little dazed, and she frowned. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve never seen anyone use magic like that,” he said. “It’s . . . useful.”

“Glad you think so.”

A commotion erupted from down by the lake, the sounds of swords being drawn. With one glance at each other, Cullen and Freya took off running, towards the noise.


End file.
